


Bucky's Place

by pherryt



Series: Bucky Barnes Bingo [12]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bucky Likes to Cook, Caregiver!Bucky, Cooking, Domestic, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra, Living Together, M/M, Nightmares, Only One Bed, Some fighting, bucky likes to read, bucky's apartment, deaf!Clint, disguises, hurt!Clint, not explicit, patching up, post winter soldier, safer together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-08 11:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21475183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherryt/pseuds/pherryt
Summary: The Winter Soldier had splintered apart and someone new had walked out of the river. He didn't know who he was anymore, so he took the name the man on the bridge had given him, and he went off to figure out who he was.And then Clint Barton crashed through the window of the little place he'd managed to make for himself and turn everything upside down and maybe sideways.
Relationships: Winterhawk
Series: Bucky Barnes Bingo [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1416790
Comments: 152
Kudos: 323
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo





	1. Crash Landings

**Author's Note:**

> So i was inspired greatly by the apartment from Civil War but this is NOT civil war compliant.
> 
> This is going to hit four bingo squares:  
Bucky Barnes Bingo - Domestic. The whole freaking fic, okay?  
chapter one will also hit the Winterhawk Bingo square : Safer together

Bucky had just placed a foil wrapped thing of garlic bread into the oven when the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood had him spinning about and reaching for one of the many knives he kept hidden about the place.

It had been an effort, a monumental one, to _not _keep one always on his person in the supposed safety of his little hideout. His arm was a bigger weapon than any knife, so it wasn’t like he was defenseless, but something about having a knife with him always made him feel better.

But he wanted more than that. Bucky wanted to feel _normal._

And now someone had just crashed through his fucking window and was rolling on the ground, a goddamn quiver on his back.

Something about that pinged him, but Bucky was already lunging forward, swiping down with the blade.

At the last second, the man rolled out of the way – Bucky’s knife plunging far too deeply into the already scarred hardwood flooring – and rolling to his feet, bow in hand…

With his back to Bucky.

Why… why was his back to Bucky? Wasn’t he _here _for Bucky? Wasn’t he HYDRA trying to regain their asset? Or any of the world governments to apprehend a killer? What the fuck was going on?

He twisted about, wrenching the knife from the floorboards, getting ready to launch himself once more -  
  
“I don't have time for this, Barnes. I'm not here for you. But you _might_ wanna duck,” the blonde archer said over his shoulder, dodging to the side just as a few shots rang in through the window.

Bucky thanked whatever was watching out for him – wasn’t god, or the past 70 years would never have fucking happened, thank you very much – that he was already low enough to the ground that they shots missed. The blonde whipped his bow around – a fucking _bow_ – and fired several shots back out the same trashed window before flattening himself to the wall on one side of it, crouching in broken glass.

Speechless, Barnes reacted on instinct, mirroring the archer on the other side of the window and trying to fit this scenario into any of the ones he’d rehearsed in his head.

He failed.

Was he in danger? Maybe, but… maybe not from this guy, either. The archer didn’t seem to be here for him – at least, that’s what he said, but could you really trust people these days? - but he _did _know who he was, and _that _was concerning. Bucky stared. The archer looked over with a manically wide grin, still breathing hard from his sudden appearance in Bucky’s little apartment.

"So hey, I'm Clint."

With wide eyes, Bucky retorted without stopping to think. “You're crazy."

Clint shrugged, not looking the least bit concerned _or _insulted. "It's been said."

"Who the hell are you and why the hell are you _here_?"

“Told ya, name’s Clint.” _Clint _aimed out the window, loosed two more arrows and ducked back inside. “And I may have had a few goons on my tail for the last few days and Nat kinda burned all my safehouses last month, so, this was the safest place I could think of."

"My apartment was the safest – “ Bucky resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose or roll his eyes. This might be a stupid question but, damn if Bucky wasn’t going to ask. This Clint, whoever he really was, might have known he was here or he might have just recognized Bucky. Threat level could only be determined by the answer. “Did you_ know_ I was here?"

"Uh, yeah. I _am _an international spy. Well, ex-spy, anyways, thanks to SHIELD being one of the bad guys all along. Still, a spy. Maybe not as good as Nat but I've got my ways," Clint said, a few more bullets, less than before, though, raining into the room.

Whoever was shooting was a lousy shot. Thankfully, Bucky didn’t really have anything on that wall to be destroyed and they were too busy shooting through the already broken window to mess with the other. Small miracle, that.

He hoped they didn’t circle around to the balcony. Whoever _they _were. Maybe he should ask.

"Who's after you?"

"Oh, y'know, the usual creeps. Some mercs for hire, couple of HYDRA dudes."

Bucky stared, panic at the thought of HYDRA being _anywhere _near him, that they could get their hands on him again and - “And you led them_ here?”_

"What, it’s not like _they_ know you're in here and..." Clint took a breath, nocked an arrow and twisted, shooting out the window without _actually_ looking – and how the _fuck _did he do that with a _bow?_ "And now they're gone. So, no worries. Safe as houses." Clint knocked on the window casement.

Unsure whether to truly believe that or not, Bucky narrowed his eyes. “And why are they after you, exactly?”

Clint shrugged again, breaking down his bow. "I mean, it's just a hunch, but I think they took exception to me blowing up a few of their not so secret bases. Which, seriously, it's not like they don't have more of 'em."  
  
Clint finished packing up the bow, sliding the quiver off his back and setting them both against the wall before settling down on Bucky’s mattress. "So, what's for dinner?"

“Not a damn thing,” Bucky bit out, ignoring the smell of garlic starting to permeate the room and glaring at the fella now making himself at home in _his _home. “Because _you _are _leaving._ Now.” His mom would be rolling in her grave – at least, he thought she would be, from the vague recollections he’d had so far - to know he was being so inhospitable to a guest, but it wasn’t like he’d invited this Clint fella to intrude on the sanctuary he’d been building for himself.

Was it a sanctuary, though, if the fella had already known it was there? How long had he known Bucky’s whereabouts? Was he affiliated with the guy on the bridge – with _Steve? _

“Awww, don’t be like that, Barnes,” Clint said with a whine.

If so, how long before Steve got here? How many other people knew?

“Seriously, we should stick together. Two bad ass dudes like us? Watching each other’s back? We’d be safer together!” Clint kept talking through Bucky’s internal panic, Bucky barely catching the words as one thing kept running through his head -

Bucky didn’t have much time, did he?

“On second thought,” Bucky growled, stalking toward the floorboard he’d stashed away his go bag under. “You stay, _I’ll _leave.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, there, big guy,” Clint said. “No need to bug out. ‘sides, I’m serious. It ain’t safe out there right now. I got all the goons _currently_ on my tail, but there’s probably more, meaning there’s a strong HYDRA presence in town now. You start wandering around out there, it’s sure to draw some eyes. Look, just let me rest up a bit, then I’ll get outta your gorgeous hair before you know it and I’ll draw them away from here.”

The last few words were slurred and Bucky turned with a frown. What Clint was saying made sense, _if _he could trust Clint (jury was still out on that one) and -

And Clint had collapsed sideways onto the mattress, his face pale and sweating suddenly, a grimace on his pinched together lips. Bucky’s eyes trailed over him, found Clint clutching his abdomen, blood seeping through his fingers.

Oh, fuck his life.

Was Bucky _ever _gonna catch a break?

For an instant, the sight of the stranger – Clint – was overlaid with that of another blonde. All too scrawny, black eye, busted lips and a gash upon his head. His arm, too, had been cradled around his middle because a rib or two had been broken but he’d still stared mulishly, defiantly up at Bucky, mouth tightly closed – refusing to make a single sound.

The image was gone, and Bucky felt the strong desire to help Clint wash over him.

After another second or two of indecision, Bucky snarled as he ripped open the cabinet under the sink, pulling out a beat up metal box with a red cross on it and dragging it over to the bed.

He hadn’t ever expected to use the damn thing, but he hadn’t been able to fully settle into his place until he’d caved and put one together. An itch had eased as soon as Bucky had closed the box and stashed it in its home, an itch that had hinted at memories but hadn’t yet delivered.

At least it was coming in handy now.

“Better not be bleeding on my mattress,” he growled.

“No promises,” Clint said with a weak grin.

Bucky had managed to peel the armor and shirts off Clint’s body and gotten him halfway patched up when he realized that some part of him had decided to trust the fella.

God. Fucking. Dammit.


	2. Dinner's Ready...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looked like Bucky was feeding his unexpected guest after all...

Clint had refused the painkillers with a wry smile and Bucky hadn’t pushed the issue.

He wouldn’t have taken them either. Needing to stay alert had taken precedence over the amount of pain he’d be in during healing. At least after decades of HYDRA torture and the damn chair, Bucky’s pain tolerance was through the roof.

And it wasn’t like Clint should trust Bucky to watch his back. Regardless of the fact that Bucky hadn’t given him reason to, _Bucky _wouldn’t have trusted _himself _to watch Clint’s back.

Bucky still wasn’t really sure who he was, anymore, and you couldn’t trust someone who didn’t even know who they were. He had reflexes he didn’t even recall getting. They had _programmed _him.

Who knew what Bucky would do? Least of all, Bucky.

Scowling still, Bucky put the first aid kit away and headed back to his stove, staring at the pot of boiling water that had, thankfully, not sprung a leak from random gunfire. It was also furiously boiling itself away without the pasta he’d planned on putting in.

People crashing through your windows tended to change one’s plans. With a sigh, he dumped the box of Ditalini into the pot, paused, closed his eyes for a second, then dug another box of the same style pasta out of his cupboard and dumped that in too.

The sauce had already been simmering on the back of the stove. It’d been cooking since this morning, made from scratch – well, as scratch as you could get when using cans of pureed tomatoes and tomato paste and diced tomatoes. But he’d added onions, mushrooms, red kidney beans and sweet Italian sausage and ground beef as well, topped with liberal amounts of garlic and oregano.

He wasn’t sure when he’d eaten it before, but he’d woken up yesterday with a craving for it, a feeling of home and warmth so strong that he’d _needed _it, badly.

Instinctively, as he sought out the ingredients, he seemed to already know everything he needed to make it. His hands moved on reflex as long as he didn’t stop to question what he was doing and now the apartment smelled wonderful.

Reaching over the stove, he idly stirred the slightly bubbling pot, sauce spattering the rim of the pot. Then he sniffed, wrinkling his nose. What was burni –

“Oh fuck,” Bucky spluttered, yanking open the oven door and snagging the bread out with his left arm, not even bothering with a pot holder. He shoved the door closed again with his knee, swiped the towel hanging off the door with his right and spun to lay the towel, then the pan on the table in fast succession.

Right. He’d never turned the timer on. Unexpected guests and their unexpected company with party favors consisting of arrows and bullets would do that to a person, he supposed. Gingerly, he pealed apart the foil and looked at the bread critically.

His shoulders slumped in relief when he saw that it was crisply golden most of the way, only the barest hint of burn on one edge.

Dinner was saved.

And being shared, apparently. Which… strangely, Bucky was finding himself increasingly okay about that. Did that mean he was lonely? Shaking his head to dispel that train of thought, he pulled a couple of plates from his meager stack in the still mostly bare cupboard, then snapped up a knife from the beat up woodblock on the counter.

Bucky quickly started slicing the bread, placing a couple of pieces on each plate, but when he looked back over to Clint, the injured man had dropped onto his back, laying across the mattress sideways with one arm draped over his middle, the other under his head as he drooled, fast asleep.

Blinking, Bucky went back to tending the food. The pasta was finished soon enough and he’d drained it all and added it to the sauce, mixing it together. He glanced back at the archer, then at the pot before dishing up two platefuls. He left his own plate on the table, grabbed a few more things and walked over to the mattress, nudging at the unconscious man with his foot.

“Hey, thought you were hungry?” Bucky said. He frowned as Clint didn’t so much as move. For a spy, his situational awareness was shit. Had the man been hurt worse than he’d thought? Bucky nudged him again, a little rougher. “Hey,” he barked out a little louder.

Clint stirred, choking off a yawn when he sat up, grimacing. He rubbed at his eyes then looked up at Bucky. His eyes fell on the plate and the drink in Bucky’s hand and his face lit up.

“Yes! You are the _best, _Barnes!” Clint cried out, reaching forward eagerly. He balanced the plate on his lap, setting the simple glass of water on the floor. He shoved a forkful into his mouth and his eyes closed, a look of sheer bliss on his face.

Bucky cleared his throat uncomfortably, turning away and sitting in the lone chair.

“This is amazing,” Clint said, his voice garbled.

“Are you talking with your mouth full?” Bucky’s head snapped up and over, glaring. “That’s rude.”

“I can’t help it!” Clint said with a moan. “It’s so good! Much better than what I’ve been living off of lately. I’m a terrible cook, and leading the bad guys on a merry chase doesn’t give you much time to stop off at the fast food places without endangering folks.”

Bucky tilted his head in acknowledgement. Fair enough, he supposed. Though maybe it’d be in Clint’s best interest to learn how to cook. Bucky stared at him as he ate, trying to gauge his age. Older than Bucky physically, though Bucky would surely win by birthdate. If the fella hadn’t learned how to cook by now… it might be too late.

They finished the rest of the meal in silence. Bucky, because he simply didn’t want to talk, didn’t know what he would say even if he did. Clint, probably because he was too busy stuffing his face.

He cleaned up after the meal, putting the leftovers away and cleaning the dishes, while Clint fell asleep once more. Afterwards, Bucky moved around the tiny shoebox of an apartment, digging out a broom and his makeshift dustpan. He needed to clean up the mess of the window and fix it - well, as best as he could. The apartment was tiny, and in a lot of places bare, but it was comfortable. Something about it seemed… familiar, though he couldn’t put his fingers on why, exactly.

When he’d finished covering the open window with a sheet – hammering away regardless of the noise he was making – Bucky finally let himself look over at Clint again.

Clint had fallen back into much the same position as he had been before, on Bucky’s only mattress. Fuck.

It was too early to go to bed anyway.

He put his hammer away, walked over to Clint and shifted him to lay on the mattress properly, fully expecting the man to wake up and attack, but Clint slept on. He stirred a little but settled back down far too quickly for Bucky’s peace of mind – how was this man still alive? – as Bucky draped the blanket over him and returned to his table.

Reaching under the table, he pulled out the book he’d secreted under it, in a pocket he’d made just for the book, opened it a few pages in and stared at the blank page, pen poised over the paper.

Then he began to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ditalini is a type of pasta. it's tube shaped and small and my mom always used it for a very specific type of meal she made - which is what bucky's making. HOWEVER, most people i've mentioned it to have no idea what it is, and i have since learned that it's hard to find in some places. 
> 
> while i love it, I don't make it often because nobody but me in my house will eat it because SOME people have something against mushrooms and kidney beans and even I get tired of eating nothing but that for over a week (i've tried halfing the recipe. it's still a lot. it was meant to feed a family. figure it'd work for a super soldier.)


	3. Night Time Vigils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky kept watch as Clint slept, and it sparked memories of similar watching, similar worries for another blond...

Bucky had written more than he’d expected to, and it had occupied his attention for several hours, but now he was left with the very real prospect of only one bed, already occupied by a complete stranger.

All he really knew about Clint was what Clint had told him, though the archer still pinged something in Bucky’s brain that he couldn’t quite pin down.

He was familiar, in more than one way. The more Bucky thought about, the more he felt like he should _know _who Clint was, but nothing was coming to mind. The frustration that left him with was more than agitating and he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep even if the mattress was free.

He shoved his chair back, then paused.

Dammit. When Bucky couldn’t sleep, he normally flipped the mattress up against the wall, clearing enough space to run himself through some demanding physical exercises until he was so exhausted he could pull the mattress back out, letting himself just drop into it.

Again. Not possible.

His usual routine thus disrupted, Bucky paced. Then cleaned, but there really wasn’t much left to clean.

He thought about Clint’s words, about the HYDRA presence now here in town.

He should check his defenses.

He turned toward the door, then hesitated. He looked at Clint. Fuck. If he left the apartment now, he’d be leaving Clint defenseless. It was apparent that Clint was either too out of it to react to an intruder _or _had decided he trusted Bucky to keep an eye out for him.

Which was dumb. Clint was a spy and there was no way a spy would be _that _trusting, especially if he knew who Bucky was and what he was capable of. So. More injured than he let on. Therefore, Clint needed protecting.

And Bucky couldn’t do that if he was crawling over the rooftops, now could he?

He ran his hand back through his hair and looked around the studio apartment. He was on the top floor, corner apartment - one door to the hall, two windows on the same wall, and a second door leading to a balcony. That was it, not counting the door for the closet or the one for the bathroom.

He could go out to the balcony, but Bucky would have stuck out like a sore thumb if anyone happened to glance that way. With HYDRA in town, he didn’t want to risk that.

Bucky pulled his chair away from the table and fitted it against the wall, in the scant space between the door and the mattress and crossed his hands over his chest. As usual, the slight whir of his left arm, all too loud in the silent apartment, despite the night time sounds of the city that drifted through the windows – not New York, not Brooklyn, (even though he was close) but something much smaller – set his teeth on edge.

He watched Clint’s chest rise and fall, watched it for irregularities of breathing that might warn of something worse, and found himself hypnotized by it…

And then memories started bubbling to the surface. Similar nights of watching someone, making sure they made it through the night. Someone who regularly had trouble breathing, who had Bucky’s heart in his throat if the breathing changed too drastically.

It was the scrawny blonde again.

That was twice that the archer had called up memories of the other, though Bucky didn’t remember who – no, Steven? Steve?

Shaking his head, Bucky pulled the pamphlet out of his back pocket, much creased and worn from living there the past few months. The Smithsonian. It had that exhibit on Captain America, which was why he’d gone. After facing Captain America not once, but three times, after Captain America had insisted he’d known Bucky and even going so far as to let Bucky hit him…

Bucky had needed to know. To know who Captain America was. Why the man was positive he knew Bucky. The trip had been most enlightening. Disturbing as hell, but enlightening. Most of the exhibit was about the after, but…

He unfolded the paper, staring down at the same face with the stubborn jaw and all too skinny limbs.

But Captain America had come _after_. After an experiment had turned a sick kid into something else, something _more._

Into the man on the bridge, the man who’d known Bucky. The man Bucky had recognized. And the scrawny kid in his memories was from _before; _before he’d changed into the man the rest of the world knew, before he’d fought Bucky when Bucky was still being controlled, a mere few months ago.

Before he _let _Bucky win. Before he stopped and refused to fight back any further.

Before he’d fallen from the helicarrier and Bucky had stared after him, the scene shifting into mountains and ice and snow, a train, another fall, Steve staring down at _him._

Fear and anguish and a deep, deep sadness had overtaken Bucky, and Bucky had leapt after. Had dragged Steve out of the water, desperate to give him the one thing Bucky hadn’t been given – a chance.

And now here was this archer who looked nothing like Steve, who acted nothing like the bits of memories that Bucky could remember, and he kept _dragging _more of it out into the light, flashes of Bucky’s old life spinning across his eyes like an old movie reel –

God, he felt so old and worn down.

He raised his right hand in front of his face and turned it over and over. A few small scars, still fading, but no wrinkles or liver spots. His skin was smooth. He wasn’t entirely sure how long it had been, Bucky kept losing track of the date, the year, but he knew it wasn’t normal.

Him and Steve, they should be long dead.

Why were they still alive?

Why was _he _alive when so many good people had died?

When he had _killed _some of those good people who should still be alive?

Bucky dropped his hand into his lap and let his head thunk against the wall, eyes looking up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks and imperfections again and again.

They looked somewhat different this way, from this spot, rather than where he usually lay. Familiar but not, like the memories in his own mind.

Would he ever be whole again, or was he a lost cause?

And did he even deserve to be, after everything he’d done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice a time discrepancy from what Clint says and what Bucky thinks for the elapsed time between DC and now... thats cause Clint's doesn't really care what day it is and has been running around losing track and, well, i've just got him being a little dramatic/prone to exaggeration (under exaggeration) here


	4. Stubborn Houseguests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint proves he's like a cat - he can sleep _ anywhere_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winterhawk Bingo Square - Only One Bed  
there are actually, like, 3 chapters this coulda fit, but i'm gonna stick it on this one :D)

Bucky had actually fallen asleep in the chair and he gasped awake with a jerk, lunging away from it, kicking it across the room when something stirred in the room.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said a voice. “Take it easy, Barnes. Just looking for the bathroom.”

From his crouch on the ground, the knife from under his chair in his hand with no memory of even drawing it (because yes, he’d been trying to feel normal, but he wasn’t stupid and he _had _hidden weapons all over the goddamned place), Bucky looked at the other man through his unruly curtain of hair – _Clint_, that’s right. That was his name, the archer who’d unceremoniously crashed through his window and then mooched dinner before stealing the only bed for the night.

He took Clint in, saw him standing across the room from him, hands raised to show no weapons – like Bucky would trust that. He snorted and Clint’s shoulders eased a little.

“So, uh… bathroom?”

Bucky pulled himself out of his crouch and jerked his head over his shoulder before picking up the chair and righting it - and putting the knife back in its place. Clint knew where it was now, but strangely, it wasn’t Clint that Bucky was worried about.

Thought, maybe he should rethink his effort to not stay armed at all times in his own place while there was an actual presence of proven danger in the area.

But if he did that, if he backslid, did that make him more Asset than Bucky?

He didn’t know the answer to that question and he shoved the chair a little harder back under the table than he needed to before putting water into a kettle and setting it on the stove. The gas stove click-click-clicked on, a soothing, satisfying sound.

Electric stoves were too silent, too invisible for Bucky’s liking even though he _knew _the coils turned red, or the surfaces did. But he preferred the flames, to having a more _visible _means of telling _how_ hot the stove was. And the flickering light was soothing. It reminded him of… of something. There were not that many things in this more modern world that quite did that, too many unfamiliar things that sparked no true memories.

Unless it was something from the Winter Soldier, and those were memories Bucky could well do without.

The toilet flushed, the sink ran and Clint stumbled out, covering his yawn with his hand. He flopped down on the too small couch Bucky hadn’t even deigned to consider worth sleeping on, it was that small. He made a strangled sound, and Bucky suspected he’d aggravated his injuries with his ill thought of maneuver. His long limbs, even curled up, dangled off the couch even worse than Bucky’s would have if he’d bothered to give it a try.

He hadn’t, because he’d known better.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bucky demanded, reaching up for a mug.

“What does it look like, bro? I stole your bed and –“ Clint yawned and his words continued in a strangely muffled manner. “Didn’t mean to kick ya out. Go to bed, Barnes.”

“The fuck I will.” Bucky snapped the mug down on the counter. “Get back in the damn bed.”

“Nuh uh,” Clint mumbled. “I’ll b’fine here.”

“You’re injured, I’m not. Get your ass in the goddamned bed, you punk.” Why was he pushing this? If Clint didn’t want to take care of himself, why was Bucky bothering to do it? Clint was a grown man. A spy, even. He surely knew his own limits…

Right?

Then again, Stevie’s punk ass had known his limits and hadn’t fucking _cared_, always pushing the boundaries and leaping over the cliff – sometimes literally - leaving Bucky to clean up after him.

Huh… there was another one. Another memory.

He shook his head as Clint didn’t move.

“if you don’t move your ass, I’ll move it for you,” Bucky warned, stalking around the couch.

Clint was already fast asleep. How the fuck did that man – it couldn’t possibly be comfortable. Bucky debated moving him himself but shifting when he was freshly injured and exhausted was one thing. Physically moving him when he’d had some time to recover… that’d be asking for trouble.

Trouble Bucky could easily handle, sure. Only Steve and the Widow had given him a run for his money, but it wasn’t worth the hassle, or the risk of potentially injuring Clint further.

Bucky left him where he was.

When the kettle whistled, he turned it off, poured himself a tea – it had called itself sleepytime. He doubted it actually put _anyone _to sleep, but it _was _soothing – and brought his mug over to his mattress. There was a sideways crate he was using as a nightstand, and he put the mug down on the top of it, pulled off his boots and tucked them inside the crate before pulling out his book.

He settled on the mattress, back to the wall, dividing his attention between his book and Clint. It was warm enough in the apartment that the dilemma of whether or not Clint needed a blanket was solved.

Bucky ran hot, so he didn’t need one (at least, not currently. Winter might be another matter entirely), he just liked the comfort of it. He sighed, stood up, picked up the only blanket he owned and draped it over Clint. Clint grasped the edges of it and curled it around himself with a pleased little murmur and Bucky sat back with his book, feeling way prouder of himself than such a gesture should have engendered.

There was _definitely _something wrong with him. Him, Bucky. Not him, Clint.

He tried not to keep staring at the man while he slept and turned his attention to the book. It was one he’d found in a second hand store. It was well worn, with a torn cover, and something about it had looked familiar. So he’d picked up the Time Machine, as well as a collection of books by Edgar Rice Burroughs and a few others that didn’t look familiar but looked to be in a similar vein.

When he wasn’t relearning who he was, writing in his journal or working himself to an exhaustion, or paranoidly checking the surrounding blocks, Bucky read the books.

And enjoyed them.

They brought with them both nostalgia and a sense of wonder, at the authors powerful imaginations. He wondered what Burroughs, Wells or Heinlein might have thought of the future as it was today.

Would they be disappointed in all the things that hadn’t happened, or amazed at the things that had?

Bucky, himself, just felt lost. Some things had a familiarity to them that meant the Winter Soldier had learned them, but Bucky had not.

And he already was far too wary of dredging up any of _his _memories.


	5. Stay Out of My Kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint discovers the single most tragic thing about Bucky's kitchen...

When Bucky woke up – _again!_ How the hell did he keep falling _asleep_ around this guy? – Clint was in his kitchen puttering about. A strange sense of possessiveness flashed through Bucky. How _dare_ Clint touch his things? The things he’d so _carefully_ pulled together to make his own fucking life?

“Dude, don’t you have any coffee? How do you live without coffee?” Clint complained, his words echoing weirdly with his head stuck in an upper cupboard.

“It does absolutely nothing for me,” Bucky grumbled defensively. “And it tastes weird these days.”

The blond head popped back out of the cupboard, eyes wide with horror. “Oh, oh, you poor man. To forever be denied the goodness that is coffee? How do you live without that life giving sustenance?”

Bucky ignored him as Clint continued to bang around, opening and shutting doors after peering inside. He hit the bathroom, staring into the cracked mirror after he was done and had finished drying his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair and frowned. It was getting greasy again. He wanted to take a shower, even though the pressure here was shit and the water was always cold – that was something else that felt familiar – but the prospect of stripping down and leaving himself vulnerable with a near stranger in his apartment and HYDRA on Clint’s tail had Bucky’ stomach twisting far too much to be comfortable.

He gave the air an experimental sniff. Ew. Not strong enough to offend others, but with his senses, plenty strong enough to offend _him._

The smell of burning overpowered his own scent an instant later and Bucky tore out of the bathroom to see Clint at his stove, black smoke rising from the pan. Bucky darted over, grabbed the pan and dumped it into the sink before turning on the water.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Making breakfast?” Clint said sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Bucky peered at the pan. All he could see was blackened char. There was most definitely nothing edible under all that, and certainly nothing Bucky could even identify.

He looked back at Clint.

“Do me a favor, pal, don’t touch my stove again,” Bucky drawled out. “I’d rather not get burned out of the first place of my own since the 40’s.”

“In my defense, I haven’t had coffee,” Clint said.

“And you won’t, cause I don’t have any,” Bucky said, reaching for the now cold pan. He scraped the offending char into the trash and then cleaned the pan and dried it before reaching into his fridge for the carton of eggs. He opened it to see it was down a couple. So that’s what Clint had tried to make.

How do you fuck up eggs?

Shaking his head, Bucky decided to go for something simple – scrambled. Pulling out the butter and the milk – dammit, the jug was feeling light… HYDRA or no, he was going to need to go out for supplies, especially if Clint was going to continue to insist on staying with him – Bucky set to work, Clint watching with half lidded eyes, his fingers idly twirling an arrow.

And just where had that come from? Bucky was sure it hadn’t been in his hands only seconds ago.

As he worked on the eggs, Bucky wondered, _If I ignore him hard enough, will he go away?_

Another sidelong glance decided him that not only would that _not _work, but Bucky was strangely reluctant for Clint to leave.

Dammit. He _was _lonely. There was no other reason for him to _want _this stranger around, in his space and messing with his shit.

When the food was ready, Bucky took the only chair once more and Clint sat on the back of the couch. Sideways, with one leg propped on the couch proper. Bucky glared and Clint just grinned back, adding ketchup to his eggs.

Heathen.

Meat and cheese would have been acceptable, but ketchup? He glared harder and Clint just… didn’t notice or didn’t care. Did nothing faze this guy?

“So,” Clint said, mouth full of eggs, “Whaddya do for fun around here?”

Bucky stayed silent.

“Cause, like, I’m pretty far behind on Dog Cops, but you don’t seem to have a TV. Got a laptop? We could always stream it, I guess,” he went on.

“No laptop,” Bucky grunted. It was too risky. HYDRA had all sorts of spy gear that included being able to remotely connect with any laptop in the world and turn on the mics and cameras and even a locator.

Unless you knew how to block it.

Which Bucky didn’t.

‘course, the odds of them picking the _right _laptop out of literally billions was… well, probably astronomical, but when had Bucky been that lucky?

“Awww, Dog Cops, nooooo….” Clint said mournfully, staring down at his plate with an exaggerated pout, lifting his eyes just enough to peer at Bucky through his lashes.

It was… actually endearing.

“I don’t even know what that is,” Bucky said, trying to distract himself from that train of thought.

“Only the best show on TV,” Clint said, perking up. Then proceeded to tell Bucky the synopsis of every ridiculous episode of the show. That lasted through breakfast, through cleanup, through _another _internal debate about a shower before setting that aside and planning a supply outing.

How long had this show been going? Surely there couldn’t be _more?_

When Bucky pulled his jacket on and his cap, Clint broke off and blurted, “Wait, where are _you _going?”

“Need supplies. Especially if you’re staying,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, okay, but… _HYDRA_,” Clint _oh-so-helpfully_ pointed out, like _Bucky _would ever forget a fact like _that._

“I’m in a disguise,” Bucky said, tugging at the cap again.

“Yeah, don’t know how you and Cap both think that works. Is this a 40’s thing?” Clint said, sliding carefully down the couch to sit on it properly.

Bucky stiffened. “I’m well trained in infiltration and not being noticed. I think I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, trained by _HYDRA_. If anybody’s gonna see through it, it’s gonna be them,” Clint pointed out. Again, so helpful. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not,” Bucky snapped out. “Besides, _you’re_ going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

Clint grinned at him, held up a finger and walked over to his quiver. Attached was a small bag Bucky hadn’t noticed before. The archer disappeared into the bathroom and five minutes later, came out looking like someone else entirely.

His hair was silver, there were lines on his face – both serving to make him appear older than he was. His clothes – a lavender button up so pale it was almost pink and a pair of deep brown slacks - were clean and rumpled but definitely not bloodstained _or_ armor. He walked with a shuffle and a hunch to his back that would have Bucky worried that Clint’s injury was causing him more issues than expected but then Bucky just shook his head, impressed at the transformation.

“How the hell?”

Clint tossed the bag to the side. “Ex spy, remember?” He eyed Bucky critically. “Eh, take the cap off and c’mere.”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest and didn’t move. “What are you planning to do, pal?”

The smirk tossed his way made Bucky’s stomach turn over in an odd way. There was a glint in Clint’s eyes. “Oh, y’know, just a little makeover. But when I’m done, your own _mother _won’t recognize you.”


	6. Supply Runs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heading out for supplies is an altogether different experience with Clint at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s. no, i did not give bucky a job. how's he paying for everything? I figure he stole money off of HYDRA :D

They wound up hitting the closest grocery store. Clint had done amazing things with a little bit of makeup and a couple of hair ties. Bucky looked… fuck, he looked younger than he had in the war, and _pretty._

Weapons shouldn’t look pretty.

It left a strange feeling in his chest. Something, something _longing_. He wasn’t sure what for. It itched at him the whole way through the grocery store, even as he tried to keep on alert for HYDRA goons or, really, anyone wanting to give them a hard time. It distracted him as he tried to plan easy, simple meals around two people so that even as he grabbed more eggs, milk, bread and cheese, ground beef, sausage and bacon, sugar and flour – you know, the essentials – he didn’t notice the shit Clint threw into the cart until he was unloading it at the register.

“Frozen pizza’s? Pizza… _rolls_? I don’t think that’s even foo - Wait, how much coffee do you _need?” _Bucky said, looking at Clint incredulously.

“All of it,” Clint breathed out, a dreamy look on his face.

Bucky just shook his head and paid, looking at the amount of bags they’d wound up with in a little dismay. It was a few blocks walk, and even with two of them, it would lend them no spare arms should the need arise.

Well, a few broken eggs would just have to be the price to pay for freedom should anybody come for them. Bucky was sure as fuck _not _going back.

Thankfully, no one tested that resolve and they made it back to the studio apartment without any incident. Clint dumped his bags on the table and immediately set up the brand new coffee maker, leaving Bucky to put everything away.

That was fine. He was a little particular about having things in their own spaces. Also, Bucky had noticed a distinct sense of pleasure at filling the cabinets with things _he’d _bought, at looking around the tiny little apartment and slowly building it up, filling it with touches of _him._

_Like a real person._

Soon enough, though, even the increased groceries were put away and Bucky was left with time to wonder what to do with Clint now on his hands. Interacting with people for longer than the time it took to check out at the store wasn’t exactly his forte any more.

Clint seemed content enough to be ignored as he settled down on the couch with his coffee mug, a blissful look on his still aged face.

“Shouldn’t you take that shit off?” Bucky pointed out grumpily, digging a book out to read and settling into the corner. A brush of a breeze against the makeshift repairs to his window made him sigh. Right. Broken window. Should probably be _properly _repaired. Now how the fuck was he gonna do that?

He sighed, put the book away and stood, examining the broken window and comparing it to the unbroken one. Eying Clint, he sighed again, pulled his book from under the table and ripped a piece of paper out of it, eyeballing the measurements. Clint’s eyes were closed as he breathed in the scent of coffee, but Bucky had a feeling the fella hadn’t missed it when Bucky had taken his notebook out of it’s hiding space. Nor when he put it back.

Nor had Clint answered him. Maybe he wasn’t paying attention.

Shoving the paper with the window measurements into his pocket, Bucky headed back to the door.

“Gimme like, five minutes,” Clint muttered.

“I think I can go to the store without an escort,” Bucky snapped back. “Been doing it for a coupla months now, without any help.”

“Yeah, sure, but there’s this distinct HYDRA presence in town,” Clint reminded him, one arm lifting away from the mug and scratching idly at the back of his head, then grimacing as his hand came away silver. “And, y’know, it’s kinda my fault so, a little backup can’t hurt.”

“Fine,” Bucky grumbled, but for some reason he was pleased as punch that Clint _wanted _to come along. That was stupid. He didn’t even _know _this guy.

He felt like he should though. Clint. Ex spy, ex SHIELD, archer. Knew someone named Nat. Obsessed with coffee. Some of those details Bucky knew had to be important but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Fuck HYDRA and their fucking with his head. And, well, every fucking other thing HYDRA did. HYDRA had a lot to answer for, and maybe Bucky should be doing something about that but… he didn’t want to. He just wanted to be left alone, and now here he was, playing host to someone who’d kicked over an anthill and was watching to see if it came straight at him or not.

He sighed internally, leaning on the doorjamb as he waited for Clint to finish his coffee.

Speaking of Hydra…

There'd been occasional pops of fireworks through the night, as the neighbors prepared for the holiday proper, despite fireworks being illegal, something he’d overhead people complaining about every time he'd gone to a store recently. He, and probably Clint too, was counting on that or the police would have been here already and the fact that it had been more than 12 hours and they hadn’t come by seemed to prove that out.

However, Clint _had _shot someone. Bucky hadn’t seen any bodies when he was taping up the window, but they were out there _somewhere_, just waiting to be discovered_._

And when they did, it would eventually attract attention.

Fuck.

He blamed the fact that the Winter Soldier didn't _need _to think of these things - that’s what he had handlers and explicit orders for, after all – for that realization to only come to him _now._

Fuck.

Edging to the window he could still look out of, Bucky cautiously peered out. Something of his panic must have shown through because Clint was by his side in a second, bow in hand.

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

Bucky glared at him. “You dropped bodies on your way here. You said HYDRA won’t know where I am, but all they’ll need to do is follow the trail.”

Clint relaxed, putting the bow aside. “Actually, I already took care of that.”

“When?” Bucky asked incredulously.

“Before you woke up and I discovered the travesty of your cupboards,” Clint said in an offhand manner, moving away from the window.

Huh. Maybe the guy really _did _know what he was doing.

“Who the hell _are _you, anyway?”

Instead of rolling his eyes and chiding Bucky for asking the question _again _or even giving Bucky the same answer he’d already gotten (twice), Clint’s mouth twisted into a wry little smile.

“Only the most forgettable Avenger ever,” Clint said.

Bucky jerked away from the door, hear pounding. “_What?!”_

An Avenger? A fucking Avenger?_ Steve_ was an Avenger too. Nat – Natasha. The Back Widow. _Also_ an Avenger. Archer. Avenger. _Hawkeye._ An Avenger had known where he was. For how long? That meant Steve knew, too, right?

“Calm down, Barnes,” Hawkeye said. Fucking Hawkeye. In his kitchen. Eating his food and drinking his coffee (Never mind that Bucky didn’t drink coffee, that wasn’t the damn point. He’d paid for the damn stuff. That meant it was _his_).

“Steve – “ Bucky choked out.

“Ain’t here, doesn’t know. Think he’s too busy looking for you in Romania or some shit.” Clint finished his coffee, stood and rinsed his mug in the sink.

“Romania? Why the _fuck _would I go to Romania?”

Clint shrugged. “Hell, if I know. Cap dragged Wilson out there like, a week ago? At least, pretty sure that’s what Nat said before she went radio silent on me.”

They stared at each other across the room, a new tension between them with the knowledge of _who_ Clint really was. “If you’re a damn Avenger, why don’t you just go home?”

Another shrug.

Crossing the room, Clint brushed past Bucky and reached for the doorknob. “Well, c’mon. Sooner we go out, the sooner we’ll be back inside away from prying eyes and that window’ll be fixed.”

“You just want more coffee,” Bucky said, trying to ease the pounding in his heart from his undue panic. Why didn’t Clint just go home? Why would he avoid the question? Bucky was here, on Long Island, about as close as he dared get to Brooklyn, and last he checked Avengers Tower was just over in Manhattan.

“Well, yeah,” Clint gave him a crooked smile. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Well,” Bucky said, drawing out the word, pulling the door shut behind them as they walk into the hallway. “Me, for one.”

Clint just chuckled and from there they walked to a hardware store, some huge monstrosity called Home Depot. Bucky looked at it skeptically, but it did, in fact, have what Bucky needed. In fact, it had too _much _and Bucky stood there scanning the displays helplessly. He peered down the long aisle in despair. He just wanted a simple window, nothing fancy. Opens, shuts. Has glass. A lock would be nice.

Thankfully, Clint took pity on him and gently steered him down the aisle babbling the whole while about this kind of window or that kind of window and finally stopped in front of one that does, in fact, look simple _and _the right size to boot.

Soon enough, they’re leaving. Clint with a small bag of tools and caulking and other sundry things dangling from his elbow, Bucky carrying the damn window because, what, it’s not like that’s a hardship.

Bucky had frowned when the fella ringing them up said to Clint how nice it was that his _son _was helping out with the house. Clint had beamed right back at Bucky and confided in the fella how he worked in construction and his _son _was getting into it now too, just “_showing him the ropes, donchya know?_”

Well. As much as Bucky hated to admit it, the disguises apparently worked. He wasn’t entirely convinced he couldn’t have gotten away with a million layers and a ball cap, but they worked.

Of course, Bucky hasn’t known Clint long – fuck, it hadn’t even been a full day yet – but he had the feeling Clint was the type to gloat. Oh god. Clint was going to crow about this, wasn’t he?

They got back to the apartment with no trouble and together they set to work on fixing the window. It was… surprisingly fun work. Clint knew what he was doing and Bucky’s hands seemed to feel at home with tools in his hand and with two people it went fast. When, a few hours later, they were done, Bucky felt a great sense of accomplishment.

He’d _built _something, instead of tearing it down. That… that felt really fucking good, actually.

Clint didn’t gloat. He _did _clap a hand on Bucky’s shoulder – the left one, incidentally, and Bucky stared down at Clint’s fingers in surprise – and looked at the – at _their - _window proudly.

“Good job, Buck,” he said.


	7. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky finally convinces Clint to take the 'bed'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Winterhawk Bingo square - NIghtmares

Clint insisted on pizza rolls for lunch, which wasn’t enough for Bucky’s metabolism, so he’d fortified that with some fruit. The tastes were… not exactly palatable with each other, but he ate them anyway, much to Clint’s amusement.

That counted for the morning and much of the afternoon, at which point Bucky forced Clint to sit down to check his wounds. All that walking around town, carrying bags and then working on the window couldn’t have been good for them – not to mention whatever he’d needed to do to hide a trail of bodies.

Bucky shuddered.

He didn’t want to think about things like that anymore.

Most of Clint’s wounds were superficial. Cuts and bruises – quite a lot of impressive bruises, actually – but as Bucky prodded one of the bigger ones he was sure Clint had actually cracked a rib. Despite his hiss of pain, Clint denied it.

“I’m fine. I think I know what a broken rib feels like,” he said.

Bucky shrugged. “Your funeral, pal.” He turned to the long gash that spanned from Clint’s side to his abs. It started shallow at one end and gone deeper as it went, requiring stitches. Beside it was an actual stab wound that had actually been cause for concern. A few of the stitches there had strained, but none had torn open. He debated replacing them but Clint glared, snatched the disinfectant from Bucky and quickly cleaned and recovered his own wound.

Ah. One of _those _patients. One of those fella’s who didn’t like to be seen as weak or get fussed over or whatever was going through Clint’s head. _Just take the help, pal,_ Bucky thought. _You should feel lucky I’m even offering it._

That wasn’t true though. Something in him rose to the surface, showing him memories of taking care of all sorts of people. The majority of them seemed to be one guy – _Steve -_ but there were definitely others.

Ah well. He wouldn’t force the help where it wasn’t wanted. He turned away from Clint, letting the other man get up and finally remove the shit from his face and hair. There was muffled cursing in the bathroom, but Bucky stayed where he was.

Clint didn’t _want _his help, so he wasn’t going to offer.

When Clint returned, the enormity of their current situation finally sunk in. Because at this point, Bucky would normally sit quietly and write, or possibly read. Occasionally, he’d move the furniture enough to burn off some energy in an almost meditative state as he tried to find himself.

With Clint there, that was nearly impossible.

“No TV, no laptop, no radio,” Clint muttered as he paced. “Too fuckin’ quiet.”

Bucky glared at him. “You’re the one who crashed into my apartment. Get used to the quiet. I _like _it quiet.”

“Well, I fuckin’ don’t,” Clint snapped. He spun about, making for his quiver again, and pulled out a – a pack of cards? From his quiver. Bucky stared. What even…

Nope. He wasn’t going to ask Clint how the hell he could carry so much stuff in that tiny ass bag and his quiver, especially something so frivolous as a pack of cards. He resolutely turned back to his book.

“C’mon. I’m booooored,” Clint whined.

“Then be bored,” Bucky said absently. Clint flopped down on the couch with a pout that turned into a strangled sound and Bucky’s head whipped up before he could stop himself, peering over his book to eye Clint with concern.

Clint was grimacing, holding a hand over where his stitches would be. Bucky watched, but when no blood seemed to be forthcoming, he relaxed. With a sigh, he caved and joined Clint for a game of cards, watching the archers face light up.

It… was actually fun, though some light memories of playing with another blonde, one who liked to cheat all the fucking time, made Bucky suspicious of Clint. Still, the cards did pass the time with little to no deep talking required. They cleaned up for dinner – leftovers from the previous nights meal and when dinner was over, Bucky hesitatingly pulled out his notebook.

He glared at Clint as he picked up his pen, but Clint didn’t say anything and Bucky soon turned to writing.

First, he wrote the bare bones of his day and then some of the memories that had come back to him, the feelings that had run through him. it took rather longer than it normally did and when he finally looked up, Clint had fallen asleep sitting up, his head crooked at a painful looking angle, mouth open and drooling.

With a sigh, Bucky knew he couldn’t leave Clint like that. But Clint had already refused to take Bucky’s bed. He stared at the scruffy lookin’ fella as an idea percolated in his brain like Clint’s slow drip coffee.

This was probably the worst idea ever but…

Bucky stood before he could second guess himself and he leaned over Clint, shaking his shoulder. “Hey, move to the bed, moron.”

“Nah, bro,” Clint said, slipping sideways without bothering to open his eyes. “Can’t take your bed again. I’ll be fine here.”

“We can share the goddamn bed. It’s just a fucking mattress, so even if I push you out, you’re not going to get very far.”

Clint blinked his eyes open. His stare made Bucky want to squirm. “Fair point,” he said slowly. “But are you going to be okay with that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Bucky muttered, turning a little red. What? Was he blushing? Fuck, what was _that_ for? “Just get your ass in bed before I drag it there.”

“Sheesh, you’re bossy,” Clint muttered, but now the other fella was blushing. What was even going on? Clint stood and shuffled over to the bed, pulling his shirt over his head and dropping his pants, leaving himself only in bandages and boxers.

Bucky looked away. Clint glanced over. “Don’t tell me you like to sleep with all your clothes on?”

“Safer,” Bucky grunted. “If HYDRA comes –“

“You’re not alone if they do,” Clint said softly. He carefully lowered himself to the mattress, then patted it. “C’mon. I’ll watch your back. You watch mine. We’ll be good.”

“I’m not tired yet,” Bucky protested.

“Hmmm… but you can read. The light won’t bother me,” Clint said, yawning. “Promise.”

Caving, Bucky stashed his notebook away and peeled some of his own layers off, folding them carefully and setting them aside. He still kept his boxers and a t-shirt on before gingerly setting down on the mattress and laying back. He pulled his book out and settled on his side, Clint easing up behind him.

Bucky stiffened, then forced himself to relax. Clint was probably drawn to his body heat and it wasn’t like it was all that huge of a mattress.

And besides, Clint wasn’t actually touching him. He took a deep breath, listened to Clint’s breathing slow as Bucky cracked the cover of his book and read.

He woke up hours later, Clint thrashing beside him, low level street light illuminating the apartment. A whimper had Bucky rolling over in concern – had Clint taken an infection? Was he delirious?

Another whimper, a quiet but pained, “No,” leaving his lips, sweat dotting his brow and breath coming too quickly – a nightmare, Bucky realized.

“Shhh, Clint,” Bucky said helplessly. What the fuck did he know about helping people through a nightmare? He was usually the dreamer and it wasn’t like he had anybody to help _him_. “Clint, wake up, punk. It’s just a dream, okay?”

Clint inhaled, then choked. Bucky reached a hand out tentatively, not a far reach, before curling his fingers around Clint’s shoulder. Clint shuddered, rolled, and latched on to Bucky so suddenly that Bucky froze as Clint buried his face into Bucky’s shirt.

He continued to shudder, Bucky’s ears catching the occasional sob though otherwise Clint was quiet, and he slowly wrapped his arms around Clint, ran a hand up and down the archers back, whispered words that didn’t even register to his own ears as anything but soft noise.

Whatever it was, that or some combination of all that, it worked and Clint eventually calmed down.

He didn’t let go of Bucky though and, in fact, fell asleep with his mouth half open and Bucky’s t-shirt a wet, sodden mess, their legs tangled together so badly, if someone had burst into the apartment, Bucky would be hard pressed to get up without tripping.

It was totally, absolutely, unsafe and reckless.

And he couldn’t pull away.

Somehow, _Bucky _was making _Clint _feel safe. And that… that felt good. Not that Clint needed that, no. _That _would be awful, to be thankful of someone else’s pain just so he could feel good about himself. And that wasn’t it at all. It was that someone like him, with the Winter Soldier as his past, could make Clint feel safe… it… it was unbelievable.

Bucky fell back asleep as he pondered the implications of that, his fingers raking through Clint’s hair gently.


	8. The End of the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, time passes but Clint doesn't leave and Bucky, well, Bucky's okay with that...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! this is the end! i decided to post a day early cause i'm gonna be out and about almost all day tomorrow! Good luck and for those of you who do, happy thanksgiving

The days passed and Clint’s wound should have been better by now but he didn't show the slightest inclination to leave and Bucky sure as hell didn't plan to remind him of the promise from the first night.

Because things had _changed_ since then and he'd been enjoying Clint's company. In fact, it made Bucky sick to his stomach to think of Clint leaving, and he didn't want to think about why that was.

The next few _weeks_ went like that. And yet somehow, the time passed quickly.

Each day began with coffee, then a lesson in the kitchen and the occasional card game. Bucky would read and he would write and occasionally press a book on Clint who sometimes read, and sometimes didn’t.

They talked, they shopped, they cooked. They shared a bed, and they shared nightmares. Clint brought Bucky back from the edge and Bucky comforted Clint without a word when it was his turn.

Bucky found out about Clint’s ears two days into… whatever this was. “Sleeping with these in is… not so great but… it leaves me vulnerable on a mission,” Clint had muttered after taking out his hearing aids and rubbing at his ears. He didn’t look at Bucky until Bucky had gently placed a finger under his chin and turned his head.

_I’ve got your back_, Bucky signed.

Clint blinked at him. “Yeah, yeah I guess you do.”

After that, he took them out regularly to sleep, trusting Bucky to keep him safe and with each little moment like this, Bucky felt like something long lost inside him was slotting back into place.

Sometimes they talked of family, of the bad ones, and the good. Of making their own families. Haltingly, Bucky told Clint some of the few memories he had of his and Steve’s childhoods. In turn, Clint described a side of Nat the world didn’t get to see, described a life in Avengers Tower (“Home,” Clint called it with a tone so full of warmth and wistfulness that it made Bucky _yearn_ for the same) and it was good.

Other times, their talk turned to deeper things, darker things, _other _shared things.

Bucky wanted to cry when he realized that Clint was no stranger to mind control. Clint tried to play it off as no big thing, but his eyes were haunted just the same.

Clint was loud, silence unnerving to him, and now Bucky knew why. He bought a small, handheld radio - just an old, cheap little thing that used a 9-volt battery - and the look of utter gratefulness that Clint tossed his way made his stomach swirl weirdly.

He swallowed, pushing it away.

Sometimes, they scouted around, checking for signs of HYDRA. It was quiet, too quiet and Bucky was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. So, apparently, was Clint.

But they were making it work, despite the way Clint would get antsy at times.

So of course, the other fucking shoe dropped, just as Bucky was starting to think he could maybe relax.

A canister shattered his window, hitting the floor and rolling under the table. He leapt for it, tossing it right back out, growling as Clint lunged for his bow, still leaning on the wall between the windows.

“Dammit, we just _fixed_ that fucking window!” Bucky shouted, already pulling weapons to him.

Both windows blew in, and so did the doors, as men – as _HYDRA_ – forced their way inside from three directions.

It was enough to have them surrounded.

Bucky had faced worse odds before, but he’d been the Winter Soldier, then, willing to kill.

He didn’t want to kill people anymore.

Heart in his throat, he engaged the closest man, seeking to incapacitate if he could, kill if he couldn’t. Clint was whirling, a combination of arrows and stabbing, of kicks and punching. At least the man was versatile, Bucky thought with relief, throwing his table across the room to wedge in the door and keep more people from coming in.

The battle was hard and dirty, Bucky using whatever was at hand as a weapon – fresh pot of scalding coffee splashed in that one guy’s eyes, ripping the rug out from another and kicking them in the balls, snagging cinderblocks and tossing them across the room.

Between the two of them, the battle was over quickly, and Bucky was shoving his feet into his boots and grabbing his bag. It already had everything important in it – more weapons, extra cash, some clothes - but with Clint watching his back, he took the time to stop, snap up his notebook and pen, his favorite books, his favorite shirt and stuff them into the bag as well, slinging it over his shoulders.

He couldn’t stay here anymore. Clint had already shown him this place was known. He should have moved on weeks ago but he hadn’t.

Now that HYDRA was here – they were sure to have called it in. Others would be coming. Who knew how quickly?

He headed for the balcony, Clint following along with him. A quick scan showed nothing in sight and Clint’s quiver whirred, snapped and he pulled an arrow, aimed and let loose. Across the way, it embedded itself and Clint anchored the rope. Slinging his bow over his head, over the rope, he pushed off the balcony and let gravity take it’s course.

Bucky waited till he was safe on the other side, then backed up a few steps, ran and jumped, landing on the other side hard.

Straightening up, he looked Clint over. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Clint said with a wild grin, a flush on his cheeks. He was beautiful. “You?”

Bucky nodded, then looked back at his apartment sadly. It had been his, and there was no way he could stay there anymore. The loss bit at him and Clint grabbed his shoulder.

“You got any place in mind?” Clint asked.

“No,” Bucky said, turning his back on the apartment with finality. “I just go. Can’t anticipate someone who doesn’t have a destination in mind.”

“Then let me pick. I got someplace to go, if you’re ready for it,” Clint said. “And another if you’re not.”

Bucky swallowed as the full meaning of the words hit him. Was he ready? He wasn’t sure. But… these past few weeks, the past few months, he’d not recovered all that he’d been, but he’d become someone, he was sure, and having Clint around had helped with that.

He didn’t feel as much a danger to others, either. Clint and Bucky had been coexisting for a while now and… it had been fine.

No one had gotten hurt.

Except HYDRA, and they didn’t count.

“Okay,” he croaked. “Not sure if I’ll ever _really _be ready but…” he took a deep breath. “Let’s do it, let’s go home.”

He wasn’t sure if it was the right choice or not, but the wide, beaming smile on Clint’s face gave him hope.

The kiss that followed after surprised Bucky, but he melted into it without thinking, something in him telling him this had been a long time coming. He didn’t want this to stop, but they weren’t free of danger yet. The longer they staid out here on an open roof meant HYDRA had more time to try again.

Reluctantly, they pulled away, breathless. Clint pulled out a phone, sent a message out and then the two of them ran, just ran, Bucky following Clint blindly.

After time spent with the archer, Bucky was absolutely sure Clint would never steer him wrong.

They met a jet in a deserted parking lot several blocks away, wind whipping at his har as it landed.

Steve came down the ramp, and Bucky’s breath caught, more memories flooding him then he’d been prepared for, but they were… they were _good_ memories. Just… too many, at once, and he wasn’t sure what to do.

Then fingers crept into his hand, curled around his metal fingers and gave him a reassuring squeeze and Bucky looked up into Clint’s open face, into the smile, those warm eyes, and Bucky was _sure _things would be all right.

* * *

**Bonus scene:**

“Romania, Rogers, really?” Bucky asked.

“What?” Steve said, looking sheepish. “I thought you might be going back to your roots, figuring yourself out.”

Bucky closed his eyes and heaved a sigh, pinching his nose. “You’re killin’ me, Rogers. _Brooklyn_ is my roots.”

“Well, yeah, but…” Steve gestured helplessly into the air. “Your family came from – “

“Born and raised in Brooklyn, punk, just like you. Would _you _go off to _Ireland_ to find yourself?”

Steve spluttered.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Bucky said fondly (and perhaps a little smugly) as Clint doubled over laughing. It was utterly ridiculous and Bucky felt something more ease inside him.

Yeah, he’d definitely made the right call.


End file.
